The neighbours gathered. They talked about the gentle nature and good qualities of both the father and the son. Both were seen as embodiments of virtue and modesty. They’d never uttered, even by mistake, a foul word to anyone. Prabhudas’s entire body had become cold now. If there was life anywhere, it was only in his eyes. And they were looking at the iron vault unrelentingly.
The house was now in pandemonium. Prabhudas’s mother, and his wife were both wailing and weeping. Women from the neighbourhood tried in vain to console them. His friends stood by with handkerchiefs pressed to their eyes. Death at a young age is one of the most heart-breaking, unnatural and fearful sights one can behold—a thunderbolt, a cruel comedy played out by the creator. Life seemed to have taken on the aspect of an unquenchable thirst. The life breath might ebb out but the longing remains.
In the meantime, Magan came and stood beside him. Prabhudas turned his eyes away from the vault and looked at him. It seemed as if his blood had begun to flow again. There were momentary signs of revival. He called out to Magan, whispered into his ears and pointed towards the iron vault. As Prabhudas did this, his eyes turned away, and he breathed his last.
Translated from the Hindi by M. Asaduddin
A Dhobi’s Honour1
Bechu Dhobi loved his home and village as much as every man did. He ate simply, often barely half his fill, but his village was still far more precious to him than the whole world. Though he had to suffer the abuses of the old peasant women, the honour of being called Bechu Dada by the young wives was also his. He was always invited to every occasion of joy or grief; especially at weddings, his presence was no less essential than that of the bride and the groom themselves. His wife would be ceremonially worshipped inside the house; he would be welcomed graciously at the doorstep. Wearing peshwaz, bells tied to his waist, one hand beating the mridang, one hand on his ear, when he would lustily sing the traditional viraha and bol extempore, along with the troupe of singers and musicians, his eyes would glaze over with pride. Yes, Bechu was quite content with his lot as a washerman. But sometimes, when the atrocities of the zamindar’s men became unbearable, he would long to run away from the village.
Karinda Sahib had four or five peons. Each of them had large families. Bechu had to wash all their clothes for free. He did not have an iron. To iron their clothes he had to beg and plead with the dhobis of other villages. If he ever took back the clothes unironed, he would have to face hell for it. He would be thrashed, have to stand for hours in front of the chaupal, and such abuses would rain down on him that passers-by would cover their ears and women would lower their heads in shame.
It was the month of Jeth. All the nearby ponds and lakes had dried up. Bechu would have to leave for a distant lake while it was still dark. Even there, the dhobis already had their slots fixed. Bechu’s slot fell on the fifth day. He would load his bundle of washing and arrive there long before dawn. But it was not possible to stand in that scorching Jeth sun beyond nine or ten. Even half the load wouldn’t get washed. He would bundle up the unwashed clothes and return home. The simple village folk would listen to his story of woe and quieten down; they would neither abuse him nor beat him up. They too had to work the plough and hoe the fields in that fierce Jeth sun. The soles of their feet, too, were cracked and sore; they knew his pain. But it wasn’t so easy to please Karinda Sahib. His men would forever be standing on Bechu’s head. ‘You don’t bring the clothes for eight-eight days on end,’ they would say grimly. ‘Is this winter or what? Clothes get grimy and smelly with sweat in a day here, and it makes no difference to you.’ Bechu would fold over himself, beg, plead and somehow manage to pacify them.
Once, nine days passed, and their clothes were still not ready. They had been washed but not yet ironed. Finally, helpless, Bechu reached the zamindar’s chaupal with the clothes on the tenth day. Fear had frozen his limbs. As soon as Karinda Sahib saw him, he went red with rage. ‘Why, you rascal, do you want to live in this village or not?’
Bechu put the bundle of clothes down on the wooden platform and said, ‘What to do, Sarkar, there’s no water anywhere—and neither do I have an iron.’
Karinda: ‘Everyone in the world has water except you. There’s no cure left for you except to throw you out of the village. Scoundrel! Fooling the midwife with a bloated stomach—no water, no iron indeed!’
Bechu: ‘Malik, the whole village is yours; if it pleases you, let me stay, if it pleases you, throw me out, but don’t taint me with this accusation. That is a custom common to city dhobis. I have spent a lifetime serving you. But whatever the mistakes and lapses may have been on my part, my intentions have never been bad. If anyone in the village says that I have done such a thing, I will accept my fault.’
It is futile to try and reason with a tyrant. Karinda Sahib abused and cursed him some more. Bechu too pleaded and swore in the name of justice and mercy. The result was that he had to consume turmeric and jaggery for eight days to relieve the pain of the thrashing he received. On the ninth day, somehow or the other, he washed the remaining clothes, collected his
